


Just Forget the World

by finkpishnets



Series: Different Pages of the Same Name [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, The Like
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 12:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High School AU. The only thing Pete really loves about high school is soccer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Forget the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hs_bingo prompt ‘sports’. This verse is stupidly fluffy, I'm afraid.

The only thing Pete really loves about high school is soccer. He’s been on the team since the end of sophomore year when one of the senior’s broke his leg in the middle of a game and the coach was desperate enough to stick just about anyone of the pitch.

It turned out that Pete was actually pretty good at it.

His grades aren’t great – actually, they kind of suck – but he’s passing which is enough to keep him on the team, and his mom doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t lock himself in his car with the pills from her medicine cabinet again.

The other guys on the team are okay, he hangs out with them at lunch sometimes and goes along to the parties like he’s supposed to, but his only real friends are Joe and Andy and possibly Mikey though Pete doesn’t think he can actually call him that anymore.

Joe and Andy are throwing around the idea starting a band, and Pete actually thinks it might be more than just the weed talking this time, and they’ve asked him how he’d feel about learning the bass. The thought makes him want to smile, leaves a pleasant weight in his stomach, and Pete _wants_ to, he really does, only then he’d have to chose between band rehearsal and soccer practice and he’s not sure he could. It’s okay though because it’s only an idea and maybe by the time Joe and Andy make it a reality Pete’s priorities will have shifted again and he won’t care anymore.

 

+

 

His dad likes that he plays a sport. Actually, Pete’s pretty sure his dad just likes that he’s taking an actual _interest_ in something, and it could be history or debate or cheerleading and his dad wouldn’t care just so long as he’s not shutting himself in his room and staring at the ceiling for hours like he did sophomore year. It means his curfews are pretty loose and his parents bought him a car for his seventeenth birthday, just a small, beat-up little thing but a car nonetheless, and Pete thinks maybe it’s all supposed to help him have some kind of social life.

He pretty much just goes to Joe’s and smokes up with him and Andy in the garage so it doesn’t really work. Still, what his parents don’t know can’t hurt them.

Sometimes on Monday’s he’ll drive out to the mall, go bug Travis for free smoothies and hang around ‘till Spencer starts his shift and the three of them can talk music until the queue gets too long and Spencer offers him an apologetic shrug. Spencer may be a junior but he’s Pete’s favorite junior.

“There’s a game this weekend, right?” Spencer says, pouring mango and raspberry into a paper cup and handing it over to the only waiting customer with a distracted smile. He keeps looking over at the table by the window where some kid with dark hair that Pete vaguely recognizes is sitting. The guy has a lavender hoodie that Pete kind of envies.

“Friend of yours?” he says, and Spencer blinks.

“What? Oh, no, just a guy from my history class,” he says, but it looks like he drags his eyes away with difficulty. “So, game?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, letting it drop. “Friday after school. Home game.”

“Cool,” Spencer says. “I’ll drag Ryan along and sit upfront.”

Pete laughs, knocking his elbow against his cup a little so some of his smoothie splashes against the counter. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

“What’s Ryan done to piss you off this time?” he says and Spencer grins.

“It’s for his own good,” Spencer says. “The more time I leave him alone the more time he has to mess things up with Tennessee.”

Pete’s never known whether Ryan and Tennessee are dating or not and whenever he asks Spencer just says he’ll let him know when he does. Still, guessing seems to be one of the great amusements of their very dull lives so Pete doesn’t really care.

Pete can feel the door opening against his back, the breeze brushing across his skin, and Spencer’s smile suggests it’s someone he knows. Someone they know.

“Hi,” Z Berg says, sliding up next to them and leaning on the counter casually. “Two strawberry kiwi bursts please Spencer Smith.”

She turns to smile at Pete and he smiles back. He likes Z; they have gym together and sit by the side of the hall so they can avoid getting picked, and Z will tell him about her weekend or the new CD she wants to buy or Annie Monroe and Pete will tell her about how the last game went or Andy’s latest cause or Joe’s ideas for space travel because he doesn’t like any sport that’s not soccer and she hates wearing gym shorts.

“Are you still getting that tattoo?” she says curiously and Pete nods.

“If I can save up enough, yeah.”

He wants a tattoo on his stomach and Z had cringed when he’d told her then laughed and told him to go for it. He doesn’t know if it’ll hurt more or less than people are always saying. He doesn’t really care either way.

The door opens again and this time it’s Annie Monroe. Pete thinks Z looks even more beautiful when Annie’s in the room because she never stops smiling. They’re a very pretty couple, pretty enough that nobody cares they’re both girls, even the people who would normally be bastards about it, and Pete’s happy for them.

Wishes he could like someone enough not to care what the world thinks.

Mikey had been the closest but Pete had screwed that up by being lost and scared and angry and doing something stupid that hadn’t even worked.

“Here you go,” Spencer says, handing Z and Annie their smoothies.

“We’re going to see a movie,” Z says. “The most mindless one they’re showing. Want to come?”

The question’s aimed at both of them even though Spencer’s still got a couple of hours on his shift. Pete thinks about it, thinks about spending the afternoon with two gorgeous girls, mocking some stupid blockbuster and laughing until they’re kicked out and it sounds nice, sounds normal.

“Sorry,” he says. “Soccer practice.”

Z shrugs like she’d been expecting it and then grabs Annie’s hand.

“In that case we’re just going to have to make out in the back row,” she says and Annie laughs, rolls her eyes but blushes prettily anyway.

“In that case you’re buying the popcorn,” Annie says. “I don’t want to be seen as too easy.”

“Later boys,” Z says, and Pete can’t take his eyes off of them as they walk away, heads bent close together, private and perfect.

“I’m off too,” Pete says, pushing himself off his stool and downing the rest of his drink. It makes his throat close up for a second, too much at once, but he swallows it and throws the empty cup in the trash. “I’ll see you later.”

On his way out he gets a closer look at the boy in Spencer’s history class. He looks sad. Pete guesses it’s just that kind of day.

 

+

 

Soccer practice Tuesday is cut short after someone slide tackles one of the strikers and the coach needs to take him to the nurse. Pete hopes it’s nothing serious. They’ve got a game in seventy-two hours.

His car had been playing up that morning, didn’t like the rain that had poured down all yesterday, so Pete has to send his mom a text and ask her to come get him. She might be working late so he doesn’t know how long he’ll have to hang around.

The school’s mostly quiet but occasionally someone will walk past him, kids from drama club or band or student office. Pete wonders if any of them would stop to talk to him if he said hi, but he can’t be bothered to test it out.

He’s been waiting for twenty minutes and his mom’s still not replied so he sends a message off to his dad too, just before the grey skies decide to open. Pete’s is his soccer uniform, shorts and a t-shirt, and he’s soaked through before he can do much more than stand. The school’s across the parking lot but the bleachers are nearer so he heads back onto the field and ducks under the metal bars. It’s still cold but it’s a hell of a lot drier, and he’s ready to settle in for the long haul when someone else ducks in from the other end.

“Oh,” the guy says. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

“It’s fine,” Pete says. “It’s a free country.”

“Right,” he says. “Um.”

“Who _are_ you?” Pete says, and it’s only after the words are out that he realizes how rude they sound.

The guy frowns and drops his backpack on the ground. He’s short, probably about the same height as Pete, and the hair that’s not beneath his trucker hat is curling slightly around his ears. Pete can’t stop looking at the way his cheeks are pink from the cold but the rest of him is really, really pale.

“Patrick,” the guy says, and Pete blinks. Patrick blinks back.

“Oh,” Pete says. “I’m Pete.”

Patrick nods and sits down, leaning back against a pole, and Pete copies for want of anything better to do. He’s feeling out of sorts, like there’s an itch under his skin, and it’s making him uneasy.

“Why are you here late?” he says when the silence gets too much.

“Band practice,” Patrick says. “I play the drums.”

“Cool,” Pete says. “My friend Andy plays the drums.”

“Andy Hurley?” Patrick says. “Yeah, I know.”

Pete nods, surprised, and feels selfish for thinking his friends’ lives revolve around him. Sometimes he has to remind himself that there’s a whole world out there and not everything is inside his own head.

“I might learn the bass,” Pete says because it seems like the right thing to say, and Patrick smiles.

“Yeah? Awesome.”

“If it doesn’t interfere with soccer.”

Patrick nods like that’s a reasonable answer and not just an excuse and Pete’s chest tightens a little.

“I play piano and guitar too,” Patrick says, “and sometimes it feels like I should give up the drums to focus on them, only I don’t think I could.”

“Exactly,” Pete says. “I couldn’t give up soccer even if I _would_ love playing bass.”

The rain’s heavier now, pounding away at metal and plastic, but it seems muffled underneath. Patrick’s fingers are tapping out a rhythm on his knee and Pete watches the way they move, up and down, until he has to look away.

“Are you a senior?” he says. “I don’t recognize you.”

“Junior,” Patrick says and Pete nods.

“Cool.”

He wants to say something witty and funny but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth and his brain keeps replaying the rhythm of Patrick’s fingers over and over. He’s almost relieved when his cell vibrates against his leg.

“That’s my mom,” he says. “I’ve got to go.”

“Bye,” Patrick says, raising his hand in a wave and Pete smiles awkwardly.

Pete’s mom scolds him for getting so wet, turns the heating up in an attempt to stop him getting ill and apologizes for not getting here sooner. Pete doesn’t really hear her though; he’s too busy watching the shadows under the bleachers and wondering which one belongs to Patrick.

 

+

 

On Wednesday Pete buys a bass guitar online.

 

+

 

Gerard Way doesn’t like Pete. He doesn’t actively _dislike_ him either, but Pete’s convinced he knows what went down between him and Mikey even though he’s pretty sure Mikey never told.

Pete doesn’t blame Gerard. He doesn’t like himself most of the time either.

“Let’s see your work then boys,” their art teacher says, and Pete avoids Gerard’s eye as he passes over his badly sketched cityscape. He likes art, he’s just not very good at it.

“Try and neaten up these lines Peter,” Ms. Arden says, “and think about the dimensions.”

She hands it back and picks up the next sheet. Gerard’s drawn an apocalyptic disaster zone, the buildings crumbling, the skies filled with smoke, and even though he’s only used charcoal, Pete can see the bleak colors. It’s imaginative and perfect and Pete’s not at all surprised.

“Wonderful Gerard,” Ms. Arden says, offering him the soft smile only bestowed on a teachers favorite. “Wonderful.”

Gerard ducks his head and picks up a pen, sketching a zombie on a piece of scrap paper, and Pete watches him until the bell rings.

“Do you know a junior named Patrick?” Pete asks as they’re gathering up their things and Gerard blinks, startled. “He’s in band.”

“No,” Gerard says. “You should ask Frank.”

He doesn’t say ‘You should ask Mikey’, and Pete’s not surprised.

“Okay,” Pete says even though he won’t. Frank’s Mikey’s best friend and there are just some things you don’t do. “Thanks.”

Gerard nods and disappears, his zombie picture clutched between his fingers, and Pete takes too long picking up his pens and has to run to math.

 

+

 

Pete doesn’t normally talk to Spencer during school, not because he doesn’t want to but because Spencer normally eats with Ryan in the newspaper office and their lockers are at opposite ends of the building, so Pete doesn’t take it personally when Spencer looks surprised to see him.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”

“There’s this guy, Patrick, in your grade? I was wondering if you knew him,” Pete says and hopes that Spencer doesn’t think he’s a freak.

“Patrick Stump?” Spencer says, looking thoughtful. “Drummer?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “I forgot, all you drummers seem to know each other.”

“There’s a secret club,” Spencer says. “We have mixers.”

Pete rolls his eyes.

“Do you know where I’d find him?” Pete says and then wonders how he’ll explain ‘I met him under the bleachers’ in a way that doesn’t sound weird and creepy if Spencer asks. He doesn’t need to worry though; Spencer’s eyes catch on something or someone down the corridor and he shoves his books into his locker quickly.

“I think he eats with Greta and those guys,” Spencer says.

“Cool,” Pete says. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Spencer says, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Pete nods and watches him stride away with purpose before going to find Greta.

 

+

 

Greta’s a cheerleader, which both makes sense and is entirely baffling all at the same time, a lot like Pete being on the soccer team, which is maybe why they get along so well. She’s blonde and sweet and beautiful and is possibly made of, like, _unicorns_ or some shit, except she also has a wicked sense of humor that Pete finds appealing. None of the other cheerleaders seem to know what to make of her either, which is funny, and Greta just smiles and does a perfect high kick and then shouts abuse at Bob Morris as he laughs from the football field.

“Pete Wentz,” she says when he catches her during lunch, stretching on the track. “How _are_ you?”

Pete shrugs noncommittally, partly because he never knows how to answer that question, and mostly because Greta will call him out on his bullshit anyway.

She hums, pulling her arms over her head, and narrowing her eyes.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“I’m looking for someone,” Pete says. “I was told you might know where to find them.”

“Were you?” Greta says, and her smile feels a little too knowing.

“Patrick Stump?” Pete says, and Greta’s eyes dance with amusement.

“You might want to try the bleachers,” she says, and Pete wonders how much she knows, wonders if _Patrick_ has asked about _him_ , and the thought makes him dizzy.

“Thanks,” he says, and Greta laughs.

“Now go,” she says. “I need to practice my flips.”

 

+

 

Patrick’s sitting three rows from the top reading a magazine and listening to his iPod, and Pete stops to watch him for a moment, focusing on the way his stomach tightens and his chest knots and storing each sensation to memory. Pete knows his own failures, knows he either feels things too strongly or not at all, and he finds it strange that Patrick just leaves him feeling a pleasant sort of warm. It’s nice.

 _This might be what a crush feels like_ , he thinks.

He walks up the steps nearest Patrick, doesn’t want to scare him, and is close enough by the time Patrick raises his head that he sees the way his eyes widen and his cheeks flush.

“Hi,” Patrick says, pulling the headphones from his ears. Pete can’t make out the quiet echoes but he imagines it’s something brilliant and unconventional. He likes to think that’s the sort of person Patrick is. Actually, he’s kind of counting on it.

“Hey,” he says, and waits until Patrick nods at the bench next to him before he sits down. “I kind of wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, his brow furrowing a little.

“I have a soccer game tomorrow,” Pete says, “and I was wondering if you’d come.”

Patrick blinks, surprised.

“Um,” Patrick says. “Okay.”

“Awesome,” Pete says.

He wonders if Patrick understands what he’s not saying, wonders if it’d matter if he did, and hates the way his thoughts are always knotted up in his head like a tangled ball of thread.

When they hear the distant shrill of the bell they walk across the field together, and the silence isn’t awkward or uncomfortable and Pete doesn’t know what to make of it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Patrick says, pushing his hat further down his head like a nervous tick.

“Yeah,” Pete says, and his smile feels genuine for the first time in a long time. “Tomorrow.”

 

+

 

It’s not raining when Pete wakes up Friday, and he joins his parents for breakfast with little more than a halfhearted grumble, listening to them talk about work and dinner plans and his grandmother’s birthday. He’s always cheerier on game days, the sort of person he thinks he should maybe be all the time, and the feeling lasts him through classes and warm ups and Coach’s lecture on strategies.

Joe and Andy bring him a burger and coke after school even though he shouldn’t really be eating them and joke about how important it is for him to keep his little soccer playing strength up. They always get to the games really early to make sure they’re sitting front and center though, so Pete doesn’t mind.

Spencer waves from where he’s sitting with an annoyed Ryan Ross, Jon Walker looking amused on his other side, and Pete waves back but keeps scanning the crowd.

He finds Patrick sitting with Bob Morris and Darren Wilson, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and his hat pulled down low. He looks a little lost and uncomfortable and Pete feels guilty for a moment before Patrick looks up and sees him and smiles, big and bright and a little shy, and Pete feels like the wind’s been knocked from his lungs.

He thinks he’s okay with being a sappy cliché if this is the outcome.

The game goes well, and it doesn’t matter if Pete’s distracted because this is something he can actually _do_. He scores two goals, helps set up another, and they finish four-one to cheers from the home crowd and something that’s almost a smile from their coach.

Pete takes the quickest shower known to mankind and sprints back outside before most of the crowd has even started to move.

Patrick grins at him as he climbs the bleachers and Pete finds it hard to remember that he’s known him for less than a week.

 

+

 

Pete drives them to a diner near the mall where they’re less likely to run into anyone they know, and then orders fries and a large banana milkshake with two straws even though it’s the tackiest thing ever. Patrick’s blush is totally enough to make the waitresses giggles worthwhile.

“I bought a bass,” Pete says after they’ve exhausted the topic of the game, and Patrick smiles approvingly.

“Not worried that it’ll interfere with soccer?”

“No,” Pete says, reaching forward and running his thumb over Patrick’s palm. “I think if you want things enough then you can make them work.”

Patrick ducks his head, and Pete can’t see his face but he knows it’s probably bright red. It’s ridiculously endearing.

He can’t believe he’s sitting here in a diner with a guy he hardly knows but wants to more than anything. He thinks about the future, if they have a future, if by pure luck he doesn’t screw this up the way he screws up everything else, and wonders how they’ll explain soccer and music and bleachers without sounding like some bad nineties teen movie. How he’ll explain that the beginning is the most significant part because those are what he can never seem to have.

Until now.

He looks at the way his hand fits perfectly curled against Patrick’s and thinks that maybe life’s just about finding the one person who will untangle the knots in your head until they become something close to manageable.

 

+

 

He drives Patrick home in time for his eleven o’clock curfew and kisses him while he has one hand on the door handle. It’s just a kiss, chaste and quick and inspiring soft butterflies in his stomach, but Pete thinks that’s okay because it’s all his and besides, this is just a beginning.


End file.
